God was here, but he left early.

<img src="http://www.legendaryballparks.com/The-Ballparks/Ebbets-Field.jpg" alt="The Entrance to Ebbets Field" /> _____________________________________________ This is Ebbets Field. It used to be here, but it left early. If you want, you can still [[visit.|01]]

Have you ever been a baseball game? How do you [[know?|Entrance]]

(if:$score<5)[You're inside the stadium. What do you want to remember? [[When you took the bus to get here.|03]] [[When you took your seat and listened.|04]] [[When you defended your team.|05]] [[When you walked here.|06]] [[When you watched a murder.|025]] <img src="http://i.dailymail.co.uk/i/pix/2013/04/12/article-2307763-1938F94A000005DC-789_634x496.jpg" alt="Overhead view of Ebbets Field" />] (if:$score>4)[The stadium is empty now. You're more confused than ever, but you remember there were people here. [[... there were people here, right?|answered path]] <img src="http://www.ballparksofbaseball.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/03/ebbets10950.jpg" />]

You're seated between Stanley and Christopher. Stanley works at Bloomingdales. Christopher works at a bookstore. They don't like their [[jobs.|07]]

You walk towards your seat, noticing a ticket in your hand that wasn't there before. "You're awfully careless." You see a man in the seats, sitting by [[himself.|010]] <img src="http://www.collectiblestadiumseats.com/sitebuildercontent/sitebuilderpictures/3WNp84z.jpg" alt="Inside Ebbets Field" />

You walk to the stadium cheap seats. They're filled with people who look like they belong in the cheap seats. "I come from Jersey City," the main in the green sweater was saying, "all the way from Jerset City, and I might as well stood home. You look at Brooklyn and you look at Jersey City and if you didn't look at the uniforms [[you'd never tell|012]] the difference."

You walked on fifth avenue on your way to the stadium today. It's a cool October afternoon, but it's warm enough that you don't can't decide what to wear. Michael and Frances are already talking when you catch up to [[them.|015]]

You turn and walk away from the boy, leaving the stadium behind you as you head back into the city. When you turn around, the stadium's gone completely. All that you have is a brief memory that it was actually there. You think. //[[Right?|end08]]//

"I had this dream," Christopher said. "A voice said to me, 'you must make love to a woman at least five feet, eight inches tall tonight." "Did you recognize the voice?" "No. Anyway, that isn't the point." You feel uncomfortable, so you close your eyes and try to ignore them. You keep [[listening|08]] anyway.

"What I think it means," Christopher said, "is that my subconcious was telling me it had a message for me." Stanley blinked before he responded. "What sort of message?" "It was telling me that deep in my soul I feel deprived." //Deprived? Why?// You know you shouldn't listen. But you do it [[anyway.|022]]

Stanley brightened. "I have an idea," he said. "I know some pretty smashing tall girls--" "I bet you do," Christopher said, loathing his friend momentarily. "What the hell, Stanley said. "I'll give a party. Just you and me and maybe two or three fellers even shorter than you and four or five girls, five feet, eight and over . . . a quiet party, where everybody is just sitting or lying around, no dancing or charades or anything embarrassing like that." //Tall girls?// //.... what?// You want to interrupt them and ask how existential angst is cured by tall girls, but they keep [[tall-king.|023]]

"Go to hell, Herman." You sit down beside Andrew and listen to him. He doesn't acknowledge your presence. "God, when I was in college I used to go out on a Saturday at ten o'clock in the morning and shag flies and jump around the infield and run and run all day, playing in pickup games until it got too dark to see." You start to respond, but realize you have nothing of [[worth|011]] to say.

"God, fifty dollars to Dorothy's piano teacher. His father's teeth--ninety dollars. The automobile--nine hundred dollars. Twenty-three dollars to Best's. Twenty dollars to Macy's for books. Pills, to be taken before retiring--ten dollars. God, it's depressing. We ransom our lives from doctor's hands." //Jesus. Who isn't depressed around here?// "And MARTHA too. 'Could you spare fifty dollars, Andrew?' EVERYBODY COMES TO ME! Nobody leaves me alone! Not for a minute!" You wish your ticket was for a different [[seat.|020]]

You see a young man sitting by himself. He has a typewriter in his lap. He looks at you with a puzzled look on his face. "Hey.... who are [[you?"|end1]] <audio src="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jsEbtUcDw40" autoplay>

The man in the green sweater took off his yellow straw hat and carefully wiped the sweatband with his handkerchief. "I been watching the Dodgers for twenty-three years," he said, "and I never seen anything like this." He put his hat on again, over his dark Greek face, the eyes deep and sad, never leaving the field where the Dodgers moved wearily in their green-trimmed uniforms. You sit down in the [[cheap seats.|013]]

"They ought to move them into the New York-Penn league. A major league team..." He laughed sadly. "Look at that!" A man named Wilson was striking out for Brooklyn. Before you can make a //Castaway// joke, he keeps talking. "He's pitiful. They walk two men to get at him in the International League. I bet Newark could spot them five runs and beat them every day. I'd give odds." "Look at them. Take 'em one by one. Look at Wilson. Why, he's [[the worst ballplayer in the world.|014]] He's even worse than Smead Jolley."

He watched the play quietly for a few seconds, his Greek eyes bitter but resigned. You look down at the field, wondering how the game was in the ninth inning since you just got there. The man in the green sweater suddendly stood up. "The only major leaguer on that ball club!" You notice a player named Cantwell has [[just scored.|018]]

Michael held Frances' arm tightly as they walked in the sunlight, a well-dressed couple smiling in the October air. //Why are they smiling?// You know they're smiling because they had slept late and had a good breakfast and it was Sunday. "Look out," Frances said, as they crossed Eighth Street. "You'll break your neck." Michael laughed and Frances laughed with him. "She's not so pretty, anyway, "Fraces said. "Anyway, not pretty enough to take a chance breaking your neck looking at her." //Oh shit//, you think to yourself. //Busted.// Mike laughed again. Louder this time, but not as solidly. You know you shouldn't keep listening to marital bliss, but you can't help [[looking at the girl Frances is talking about.|016]]

"She wasn't a bad-looking girl," Mike says. "She had a nice complexion. Country-girl complexion. How did you know I was looking at her?" //That's a good question.// "Mike, darling..." Frances says. She cocked her head to one side and smiled at her husband under the top-tilted brim of her hat. "I have an idea." "O.K. I'm listening serious." "I want to go out with my husband all day long. I want him to talk only to me and listen only to me. .... say, are you [[listening to me?"|017]]

"Sure," Mike said. He took his eyes off the hatless girl with the dark hair, cut dancer-style, like a helmet, who was walking past him with the self-conscious strength and grace dancers have. She was walking without a coat and she looked very solid and strong and her belly was flat, like a boy's, under her skirt, and her hips swung boldly because she was a dancer and also because she knew Michael was looking at her. She smiled a little to herself as she went past and Michael noticed all these things before he looked back at his wife. //Jesus. This guy's a pig.// "You always look at other women," Frances said flatly. "At every damn woman in the City of [[New York."|033]]

"If only those cheap bastards would buy a couple more like him, they'd have something. I'm not saying Brooklyn's bad as a town, because it's not, but they got office boys running the ball club, office boys with snot in their ears. That cheap Grimes. I heard he used the groundkeeper's truck to move his furniture in." You hear yourself laughing with the crowd at the Greek sweater's jokes. *And just like that,* The Dodgers score three more runs and the man in the green sweater is shouting triumphantly, the ancient Greek sorrow gone from his eyes for the time in the entire afternoon. The game was tied and moving into extra innings. [[And Cantwell was coming to bat.|019]]

"Let him stay up there! Let him win his own game!" But it doesn't happen. Old Ben, the manager, takes Cantwell out because he's statistically weak against the Jersey City pitcher. He sends out a pinch-hitter whose numbers are better for the situation. And the statistically strong guy strikes out. "On low ones," the man in the green sweater said in pain, "a pinch hitter swinging at low ones." In the next inning, you watch the Brooklyn second baseman juggle a ball and another run score for Jersey City. You remember something. //Damn. [[Wilson's the second baseman.|043]]//

Andrew laughed. //... why is he laughing?// Andrew was crying now. //That's better.// "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I yelled at you." You say nothing in [[response.|021]]

Just then, Andrew notices a group of kids playing a pick-up game on the field. "Wish I could join them." //Why don't you?// Andrew felt like going out and playing with them. He changes his clothes (you're //thankful// no one is around) and puts on a pair of old spikes. His old pants were tight on him. "Fat . . . [y]ou grow fat and the lines become permanent under your eyes and you drink too much and you pay more to the doctors because death is nearer and there is no stop, no vacation from life, in no year can you say, I want to sit this one out, [[kindly excuse me."|026]]

You see the stadium approaching in the distance. "It's Saturday," Christopher reminded him. "What sort of a girl five feet, eight or over would be available on a Saturday night in New york in October?" "Have you tried calling any yet?" Stanley said in a moment of logical clarity. "No." "Try. My advice is, try. [[Today."|024]]

"Yeah. But I know what they'll say: "---- I'm terribly busy now. Goodbye.----" "---- You'll have to use your ladder even to get into scoring territory. ----" "---- It was dear of you to call.----" "---- Sorry, Christopher. You have the wrong number.----" //Damn.// Stanley doesn't [[say anything.|041]]

Irwin Shaw learned to write in a place that doesn't [[exist.|start]] (set: $score to 0)

"I did it. I swear I did it. Jesus, Flanagan, why would I want to run out?" Alex was cowering under Flanagan. Flanagan was angry. You look around for [[an officer|mccracken]] to help in case something goes wrong. //This could go [[bad.|028]]//

You're back at the stadium's entrance. But this time.... //It's empty. Where did everyone go?// You look for the man who was sitting alone. //... He's not there. Did I imagine him?// You try to remember his name. [[Peter?|falseAndrew]] [[Andrew?|rightAndrew]] [[Steve?|falseAndrew2]] [[Wilson?|falseAndrew3]] [[John?|falseAndrew]]

And like that, Andrew walks by you and heads towards the game. "God, the sun and breeze feels good on the baseball field." You watch him for an hour, but he never stops moving slowly. You can tell his arm hurts at the shoulder when he throws, and the boy playing second base calls him Mister. Andrew stops and looks at him, sadly. "God." "Mister." "He wouldn't have done that even [[last year."|027]]

".... when I was twenty-four." (set: $score to $score + 1)[You leave your seat and head back to the stadium's [[entrance.|01]]]

//Me? Do you see me?// "Yes. You. I don't remember you," he says. //Remember me? What is going on?// "You don't know?" "If you want to leave, then stop reading. But this place won't exist once you [[go."|end02]]

He looks out over the empty field. Parts of it are missing now. The cheap seats are an apartment building. The infield has a parking garage. The concourse bar is a [[Starbucks.|end04]]

//No, no. That's [[not right.|answered path]]//

//Andrew. His name was Andrew.// He's not there, and you suspect he's not coming back. So you walk to the cheap seats, hoping that the Greek man in the sweater came back for what he'd left. //What did the sweater leave?// [[His heart|truegreek01]] [[His hat|falsegreek01]] [[His umbrella|falsegreek02]] [[His morals|falsegreek03]]

//No, no. That's [[not right.|answered path]]//

//That's right. His heart.// You walk back to the stadium concourse, and peer into the bar. It's empty, except for the weapon of destruction used so admirably during the fight. [[The shotgun.|falseweapon01]] [[The shiv.|falseweapon02]] [[The brass knuckles|falseweapon03]] [[The baseball bat.|rightweapon]]

//Dammit. [[Pay attention.|rightAndrew]]//

//No, no. Someone died - honor their memory by at least [[remembering|truegreek01]] how.//

//A bat. What a horrible way to go.// But there's nothing in the bar except the bat. No tables, no officer, no barkeep, no alcohol, no people. You head back to the entrance, trying to find someone. //I wonder if Chris ever found his woman. How tall did she need to be?// [[5'6"|falsewoman01]] [[5'11"|falsewoman02]] [[5'8"|rightwoman]] [[6'2"|falsewoman03]]

This is what Ebbets Field looks like today. <img src="http://i.imgur.com/bIuJ9RG.jpg" /> [[Don't forget.|end07]]

"But also fans.” - Christopher Price <img src="https://greggceb.files.wordpress.com/2013/09/irwin-shaw.jpg" /> "Since I am not a particulary devout, my chances for salvation lie in a place sometime in the future on a library shelf. These stories . . . [are] the hope that a spot on that distant shelf is waiting for them." - Irwin Shaw

You see an officer standing near the bar's entrance and drinking what looks like tar. "It's coffee. And I can't have nothing to do with you. Get outa here." Office McCracken is staring right at you. "I can't take the chance." You head back to [[Flanagan and Alex.|028]]

"Louis is a master boxer," Flanagan said. "Also, he punches like he had a goddamn baseball bat in his hand." "I know, I know" Alex replied. "But Dempsey would lay Louis out like a carpet." Flanagan snarled. "What the hell do you know about [[fighting,|029]] anyway?"

Suddenly filled with liquid courage, Alex throws a bottle at Flanagan's head. //Oh, shit shit shit shit shit// He missed. Flanagan didn't seem to move, but one punch is all he needed. Alex was down on the bar floor, and then he was up in the air. "Ladies and gentlemen," Flanagan said, as he lifted Alex with one hand. You're in shock. Paralyzed, unable to stop [[what's about to happen.|030]]

"I write this play with a baseball bat." With his free hand, Flanagan pummels Alex with a sawed-off baseball bat. [[Again.|046]]

Alex is a mess, all over the floor. "Say, barkeep. I'll buy you a drink. What d'yuh say?" Flanagan is standing in the mess, smiling. //Jesus.// The barkeeper's silent, as is his habit. "No? Okay." Flanagan sits back down, and begins sipping his beer [[again.|032]]

He looks at you. "Just remember I got a standing invitation for you. Anytime you want." (set: $score to $score + 1)[You [[leave|01]] the bar.]

"I want to tell you something," Michael said very seriously. "I have not touched another woman. Not once. In all the five years." Frances, as though talking to herself, replied. "I try not to notice it. I haven't even looked at another man, since the second time I went out with you." You don't mean to eavesdrop. But you want to know [[how it ends.|034]]

"You look at them as though you want them. //Every// one of them." "In a way," Michael said, speaking softly and not to his wife," in a way that's true. I don't do anything about it, but it's true." You feel certain your earlier appraisal of Michael is right. Frances began to cry. Gently, like she had rubbed her eyes too long. "Why do you hurt me? What're you doing?" Frances and Michael sat down in a coffeeshop. Their table sat in the shadow of [[the stadium.|035]]

Michael ordered two brandies. "Understand, you don't have to listen to this." "I want to listen." //And I want to punch you.// Michael hesitated, until Frances said [["go ahead."|036]]

"When I think of New York City, I think of *all the girls,* the Jewish girls, the Italian girls, the Irish, Polack, Chinese, German, Negro, Spanish, Russian girls, all on parade in the city. I don't know whether it's something special with me or whether every man in the city walks around with the same feeling inside him, but I feel as though I'm at a picnic in this city. I like to sit near the women in the theatres, the famous beauties who've taken six hours to get ready and look it. And the young girls at the baseball games, with the red cheeks, and when the warm weather comes, the girls in their summer dresses . . . that's the story. You asked for it, remember. I can't help but look at them. I can't help but want them." "You want them, Frances repeated without expression. [["You said that."|037]]

"Yes. I love you, but I want them." You want to intervene. But Frances' crying tells you there's nothing that can help. "I'm good for you, Frances said, pleading. "I've made you a good wife, a good housekeeper, a good friend. I'd do any damn thing for you." She cried, silently now, into her handkerchief, bent over just enough so that nobody else in the coffeeshop would notice. "Some day," she said, "you're going to [[make a move . . ."|038]]

"You know, don't you." Frances was angry now. "Don't you know?" After a while, Michael responded. ". . . . yes. I know." Frances stopped crying then. //Wait - what?// You look at Frances with sadness. //How is this [[good news?|039]]//

Her face didn't tell nothing to nobody. "At least do me one favor," she said. "Sure." "Keep it to yourself. I'm not interested." "Sure." "Good." Frances got up from the table to find the washroom. Her face was collected and cool. [["Be right back."|040]]

"Sure," Michael said. She got up from the table and walked across the room. Michael watched her walk away. "What a pretty girl, what nice legs." ---- (set: $score to $score + 1)[You leave them and walk to [[the stadium.|01]]]

//[[No, no. Too short.|rightweapon]]//

//[[No, no. Too tall.|rightweapon]]//

//What a weirdly specific height.// The stadium is quiet before you. You wonder what you're supposed to do next. All you can do is watch. <iframe width="560" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/9swz5soMdc0" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe> And then all that's left is silence and the [[sound of a typewriter.|beginning of end]]

//[[No, no. Too tall.|rightweapon]]//

"Just remember me, okay?" [[//...Sure.//|true end]]

When Irwin Shaw was a teenager, he took a typewriter to the seats of Ebbets Field. And he listened. <iframe width="560" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/BUTCySLDJD0" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe> His writings never managed to forget the cadence of those conversations, the "gentle people" of Brooklyn lingering in his works as specters and shackles from [[a different time.]]

"Another ritual dimension of baseball that signifies its religious character is its language; not only does baseball appropriate specific religious terms, such as sacrifice and perfect game, it also develops distinct linguistic meanings for other terms, thus creating a ritual language of its own." "Terms like homerun, strikeout, single, cellar, closer, dying quail . . . create a linguistic system that is distinct to the sport; and many of the terms have made their way into established dictionaries and provide roots for metaphors about the cosmic significance of baseball . . . [o]ne of the distinctions of a sophisticated ritual is that it employs a language of its own." <img src="https://www.thenationalpastimemuseum.com/sites/default/files/5614_a.jpg" /> "Thus privileging the insiders from the outsiders, the faithful from the pretenders." “The ritual language of baseball, of course, is understood by its ritual actors – not only [[players, coaches, and managers."|final]]

Christopher quietly looks down at the bus floor. "I'll always be alone." (set: $score to $score + 1)[Christopher gets off the bus, and you stay seated and [[travel to the stadium.|01]]]

All hope flees from the dark Greek face. "Why is it," he asks, "that other teams don't do it? They ought to shoot Grimes for that." He sits down in his seat, angry and bitter. [["No jury would convict."|044]]

"I'm going to root for a winning team from now on. I've been rooting for a losing team long enough. I'm going to root for the Giants." He stands, weary with the age of ten innings, and passes by you as he heads towards the exit. "You don't know. You don't know the pleasure you get out of rooting for a winning team." And then he's gone, back to [[Jersey City.|045]]

(set: $score to $score + 1)[Leaving his heart in [[Brooklyn.|01]]]

[[and again.|047]]

[[and again.|048]]

After an eternity at-bat, Flanagan stops and looks at you. //"Go right ahead,"// you hear yourself saying. //"Don't let me interrupt."// Flanagan snarls, takes one swing, and [[it's over.|031]]

Have you ever been to a baseball game? I think [[you would know.|end06]]